Going for Gold
by KatZen
Summary: Striving for the highest, always ready to reach above and beyond expectations is not something that is new to the Tracy boys. Set pre-Thunderbirds.
1. Alan

**Disclaimer: ****The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. No money is made from this story. Any unrecognized characters belong to my imagination, which hopefully belongs to me.**

**AN: just a set of shots from each brother's POV that was just screaming "write me!" after drama camp. Set pre-Thunderbirds. Enjoy!**

Alan

My hands fly around the steering column and my foot hits the brakes lightly. The tyres of my car squeal on the tarmac like someone's being tortured and a billow of thick dense smoke is visible in my rear view mirror.

_Touch of understeer there. No matter. I'm still in the lead. I can win this._

I quickly glance in my wing mirrors. The car in second place creeps closer and closer to me, morphing from an insignificant speck of dust to an overgrown, oversized inconvenience.

_Oh no you don't. I've been in first since lap thirty. And I'm going to come first on lap forty three. This is my win. I've worked for it. My blue ribbon. My gold._

Subconsciously, I give the steering wheel a little jerk, blocking the car tailing me.

_Take that!_

Another quick check in the mirror. The imbecile was still on my tail.

_Red and yellow. Nice colour scheme for the paintwork._

I shook my head slightly. I'm in the last ten metres of this race, neck and neck with my opponent, and all I can think of is his paint job?

_Get your head back in the game, Alan. You're nearly there. It's between him and me. No one else. Just him and me. _

_Five more metres left. _

_Three… _

_Two…_

_One…_

The chequered flag swipes down just off to the side of the track, and the last of adrenaline rushes through my body.

I can hear cheering. It sounds hollow through my crash helmet, but I know how much enthusiasm is in those cheers.

I let my beast of a car glide round the track, slowing down to come to a stop, and my headset crackles into life.

"Congratulations Alan," my service team told me. "Your first win! And hopefully, it's not going to be your last."


	2. Gordon

**Disclaimer: ****The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. No money is made from this story. Any unrecognized characters belong to my imagination, which hopefully belongs to me.**

Gordon

"Ya ready, Tornado?"

I pull my tracksuit bottoms up over my knees, and wriggle to settle them on my hips. "As ready as I'll ever be."

"Relax, Red. You've already won silver for the two hundred butterfly," there was a reassuring pat on my back. "You'll be fine."

"It's not me I'm worried about." I snap my chlorine smelling swimming goggles onto my eyes, and place the latex cap over it. "I'm worried about letting you guys down. I mean, this is the Olympics. The final team relay in the Olympics."

There. I said it. I voiced my fears.

"Aw, stop it Red," the reassuring voice sounds like an angel's call to my ears, "You're not going to let us down. Win, lose, we're team-mates. So chin up, and enjoy."

There is a sharp tug on my arm, and belatedly I realise that I'm being lead out to the poolside.

The cheers are deafening, the colour banners and flags are bright and vivid. The audience is a sea of faces, but I'm only looking for a select few.

Where are they? They promised they would be here. All of them promised me.

Oh, wait. There's Blondie. And Baby Blondie's next to him, screaming like a mad man.

I resist the urge to laugh. Very unusual for me.

My eyes travel further down the row of seats.

There's Dad. And looks like Piano-man has his camera and sketchpad. And Flyboy- sorry Ace, I know how much you hate the name, but you are a flyboy, -made it too. How he managed to wrangle some time off is beyond me.

"Swimmers, take your marks."

I strip down to my swimmers, and step onto the blocks, positioning my feet in the right spot.

The klaxon goes off, and I launch myself into the water.

I've got one aim.

I'm going for gold.


	3. Virgil

**Disclaimer: ****The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. No money is made from this story. Any unrecognized characters belong to my imagination, which hopefully belongs to me.**

Virgil

_We do our best; it's human nature, but we never even think that we may come first, let alone expect to come first in any competition. Especially not this one._

I sigh, and run a trembling hand through my hair, before chewing on my thumb.

The adjudicators make me nervous. They always do. In this particular piano recital, there's no room for mistakes, and I made at least three.

It's going to count against me. I just know it.

"Virgil, relax," my music teacher sits down and extracts my now bleeding thumb out of my mouth. "You've done the hard part."

"I stuffed up," I mutter dejectedly, and resume my obsessive nail biting. "I'm not even going to get third place. There were too many mistakes. I'm sorry. I let you down."

"Stop it!" My thumb is pulled away from my mouth again. It's not entirely my fault; I'm orally fixated. If it fits in my mouth, that's where it will go. I chew my nails when I'm frightened. And nervous. Or both at the same time.

"You have done brilliantly. You have made it to the finals. You have not let me down. I am so immensely proud of you for making it this far."

That's a relief.

"And even if you don't win, there's always next year. And the year after that."

I nod, and run my fingers up and down imaginary keys, practicing scales. Even though the keys aren't there, I can still hear the sweet melody ringing in my ears.

The door to the hall opens and closes, and I immediately forget about the scales.

The adjudicators are back. They've made a decision.

It's not me. I can tell. Their eyes and facial expression aren't giving anything away. It's not me.

"This year," the spokesperson begins, "All of our competitors have set a very high standard of piano and organ playing. It was wonderful to see so many competitors play here today, and wonderful to hear so much talent from each person.

"However, we can only choose a select few for the awards. As the adjudicators, we had the difficult task of choosing those lucky people. After much deliberation, we unanimously came to a decision."

The silence in the room is deafening.

"Highly Commended: Victor Raminski, Katie Sullivan and Joey Low."

I shake my head, bottling up my bitter disappointment. There is no hope in hell of me receiving an 'Excellence' or even a 'High Distinction'. I haven't even made it into the Highly Commended shortlist. I tune out from my surroundings, not registering what the adjudicator says after that.

Smattering applause draws me out of my reverie. I blink repeatedly like a startled rabbit. "Huh?"

"They awarded you the Excellence," my teacher informs me, wrapping me up in a tight embrace. "Congratulations! I knew you could do it!"


	4. John

**Disclaimer: ****The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. No money is made from this story. Any unrecognized characters belong to my imagination, which hopefully belongs to me.**

**AN: Hmm, John's turned out a little strange... not what I expected it to be...**

John

_Two cubed is eight._

_Two to the power of four is sixteen._

_Two to the power of five is thirty two._

_Two to the power of six is sixty four._

_The area of a circle is pi times radius squared._

_The volume of a cone is a third pi times radius squared times height._

_The distance formula is d= the square root of X2 minus X1 squared plus Y2 minus Y1 squared. _

I sit on the lid of a toilet seat, squaring numbers, cubing numbers, recalling formulae. It calms me down, makes me feel safe and secure. Numbers are my probably my best friends. Sure, I have a few human… acquaintances, but humans are confusing. What you see with them is not what you get.

Whereas with numbers, there is no hidden agenda to them. They make sense, one hundred percent of the time. They are logical. They are rational. They do not deal with emotions. They are easy to understand.

They are so different to humans.

Humans let you down.

Numbers don't.

_Pythagoras's Theorem: C squared equals A squared plus B squared. _

_Note to self: remember to take the square root of C before stating the hypotenuse. _

_Sine is opposite over hypotenuse._

A toilet flushes somewhere off to my right. I wish it would stop. It's throwing my train of thought off.

_Cosine is adjacent over hypotenuse. _

There's more noise. Idle chatter. It's just as distracting as the flushing toilets and dripping taps. I focus on the noise. It's not like I can focus on my math any more.

"Why didn't you tell me that?"

_Tell whoever what? _

"Because there's nothing to tell." I recognize the sour tone of my eldest brother.

_Ah. I know what they're talking about. Is that still going round?_

"Nothing to tell?" There is an incredulous scoff. "Dude, you nailed someone over the weekend."

I roll my eyes. I know Scott would be doing the same thing.

"I did not nail anyone," Scott mutters.

He's approaching my door. I wish he wouldn't. I know what he's going to do. As soon as I open the door, I'm going to meet his posse. I don't want to meet them. They've never really accepted me for who I am. Scott has, but he's my brother. It's different.

There's about thirty of them in the group. They are a force to be reckoned with.

Statistically, I don't stand a chance when they rip into me. Numbers tell me that.

You see, Scott isn't like me. He understands humans better than I do. He gets them. They make sense to him. He fits in. He has friends.

Unlike me. I have acquaintances.

The only place I fit in is in the toilet stall, with my numbers for company.

"John, I know you're in here."

I try my best to ignore the soft knock on the door.

_Tangent is opposite over adjacent. _

_Pi is approximately 3.14159265. To be more accurate, you need to state that pi is twenty two over seven._

"John, get out of there." The knocking becomes more insistent. "Come on, I gotta pee."

Nope. Not doing. You can use another stall, if you really have to go. Leave me and my numbers in peace. I'm not in the mood to be ridiculed by others.

I hear a weary sigh. "You're going to miss the beginning of your math competition if you don't."

I freeze. I want to do the math competition, I really do, but to do so, I would have to leave my haven of numbers. It would only be for a short time, but still.

Slowly, I unlock the door, and pry it open. I train my eyes on the mismatched tiles of the floor, letting my fringe cover my face. I don't want to connect with anyone.

It doesn't work.

Two warm fingers are placed under my chin, and my stiff neck is raised upwards.

"John, it's just me. No-one else. The others have gone."

I let my brother lead me out of the restroom. The corridors are surprisingly empty.

"Scott, you're not going to class?"

"Forget it. This is more important. Fitzy'll get over it if I'm a few minutes late to English."

We stop outside the door. I look up at it and then at Scott. He nods at me, encouraging me.

I place my hand on the doorknob and twist it slowly.

"John."

I pause, waiting.

"Whatever happens, wherever you're placed, we're proud of you."

"I know. But I'm here. I'm aiming for the top. I'm gonna come first."


	5. Scott

**Disclaimer: ****The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. No money is made from this story. Any unrecognized characters belong to my imagination, which hopefully belongs to me.**

**AN: To the best of my knowledge, there is no canon sport for Scott, so I've just chosen a sport for him. Hope that's OK. :-)**

Scott

I speed round the rink, desperate to mark my man while also remain free to receive the puck. My eyes scan the surrounding, like they always do. Excellent. There's an opening. It's not an intentional gap in the opposition's defence, but I'm going to expoli- I mean use it to my advantage.

With a burst of speed, I glide forward. The puck is passed, right where I like it.

It's going fine. It's great. Now all I have to do is get the shiny blue disc into the back of the goal, and the game, not to mention the trophy, is in the bag.

He's sneaking up behind me. I can sense him. But it's OK. As long as he doesn't try and trip me, I'll be fine. Nothing can stop me and my team from winning back the title.

Only, it can.

I feel my blade catch onto something. In slow-motion horror, I look down. It's a skate. My skate has caught onto my opponent's skate.

I don't believe it. He's tripping me. This is supposed to be a clean-cut game and he's tripping me. That son-of-a-.

I land on the ice with a thud, front first, and skid towards the rink wall. My head smashes into the wall, and for once, I thank my lucky stars for wearing the compulsory piece of headgear.

The audience groans in sympathy as the rest of my body crumples up behind me. And they groan again as a time-out is called.

I breathe deeply, taking one slow breath in, and then releasing it.

_Now is not the time to lose it, Scott. Keep it cool. You can deal with him later if there's time._

A gloved hand waves under my nose. I blink, and push it away. I don't need help in getting up. I'm fine. A little bruised and wet, but fine. I have to be.

Hiding a wince, I carefully push my way up from the water slicked surface.

"My stick. Where's my stick?"

Someone- number 23- hands me two splintered pieces of wood.

The remnants of my stick. The extension of my arm. I look down at it. I've been playing with that stick since I was seven. It's lasted a long time. It's been with me through wins and losses. It's like a friend to me.

"And that," someone else murmurs, "Is why we play with aluminium sticks, Scott."

I let the comment slide. Aluminium may be tougher and more durable, but wood is what I like. Wood is what I'm used to.

"It's your penalty. You alright to play? You haven't broken anything, have you? Apart from your stick, I mean." Number 23 asks.

I shake my head. "But I need a stick."

He nods, and wordlessly we swap sticks. I grasp the stick in my hands. It feels too light. I don't like it. It's not what I'm used to. It's a stranger in my hand.

I grit my teeth and glide to the penalty box. Now is not the time to become fussy over my borrowed hockey stick.

The ref's whistle blows.

This is it. My one and only shot at it. I focus my eyes on the right hand side of the goal and swing the stick. Diversion tactics work wonders at times.

The stick hits the puck right where I like it. But it doesn't feel right. I'll need a miracle for that puck to make it into the net. Nothing less than a miracle.

And a miracle is what I am granted. The puck slides easily through the gap between the goalie's legs and settles in the centre of the net.

The whistle blows again, and I glance up at the scoreboard.

It's time. The game's over.

The team skates up to me, en masse, and we somehow end up in a massive group tangle. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the trophy glinting in the hands of my coach. I can't help the bubble of pride swell up inside me. After all that hard work, we got the gold.


End file.
